God is in the Rain
by Rogue Hellsing
Summary: Three years have passed since Sherlock threw himself to death from the building. Three years have passed since London had any decent weather. Then again, the rain wasn't all that bad. In the rain, no one could see the tears. Post Reichenback Fall one-shot, sorry for the bad summary! Rated for a bit of language.


**Author's Note:** Quick little one shot I wrote, post Reichenback Fall. I guess a little John/Sherlock love if you tilt your head 32.6 degrees and squint really hard. But yeah, take on the age old Sherlock returns fantasies we all have about season 3 (COMING THIS FALL), and a break so I can get back to writing my Star Wars fics before my followers kill me. And yes, the title is from V for Vendetta. Anywho, please enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything. C;

* * *

It was raining still.

Come to think of it, it was always bloody raining.

The weather hadn't quite been right in London since...

Since...

With a frustrated sigh, John Watson threw the newspaper he had been holding across the room, the dull smack echoing in the still of the silent flat. A sighed curse and he rose stiffly, grabbing his cane, limping over to get it. Paused. Another sigh.

"No, that's quite enough of that, I think." He murmured vaguely to himself, perhaps to the skull that sat above the fireplace again. He couldn't stop the snort. That was something that S-

No.

He turned away from the where the newspaper lay crumpled on the ground, looking towards his laptop instead. Clouded light filtered in from water streaked panes, glinting off the thing. The whole thing could be traced back to such an unassuming piece of technology. All because of a stupid blog. A stupid blog the damn therapist had told him to write.

Write about everything, they said. It will be good for you, they said. He couldn't help the sneer that curled his lips up. Yes. Killing one's best friend is certainly remedial for the soul after a war.

Another sigh.

He grabbed it from the table, hobbling back to his chair once more, slumping down, eyes blankly resting on the closed computer. He cleared his throat in nervous anticipation. It had been three years. Three years, and he could list the months, the days, the hours, even, since he had watched the fall. A scene that often replayed in his nightmares. Nightmares that had hardly faded with the passage of time. He reached for the top of the laptop.

The phone buzzed on the table beside him.

_John, want to come grab a pint with me tonight?_

_-Greg_

He stared at the screen, weighing his options.

Open the laptop. Face his fears. Blog about his life once more and hope that everything wouldn't go through the shitter.

Or...

Go out drinking with Greg, and maybe try to forget everything.

Simple decision.

_I'll meet you there._

_-JW_

* * *

It was still pouring rain when he left the pub.

Still pouring when he walked inside the door to 221B Baker Street.

Still pouring as he shook out his coat and staggered up the steps to the flat.

He wasn't drunk as he wanted to be.

He wasn't even drunk, for that matter.

His stomach had been knotted up all evening, only managing a glass or two. Just enough to dull his senses just so.

Enough to give him the courage to open that laptop.

He slipped on a puddle on the stairs, cursing the limp loudly before straightening himself.

Of course his limp had been back for the past three years.

Of course.

Scowling at the affronting small lake of water, he sloshed across the wet boards, fingers fumbling, then opening the door.

Silence.

The side of his mouth tugged into a small frown.

"Right then. Well, best get this bloody over with." That time, he talked more to the skull than himself. He glared at the leering smile it gave him. "Oh, don't look at me like that, I know I look like an idiot, talking to you of all things." Keeping his eyes fixed on the laughing object, he trundled over to the chair and desk he left his laptop, his leg absolutely aching. A huff. He slumped down in the chair, dodgy leg straight, the other one bent. Just like always. He traded his phone for the laptop, bringing the thing onto his lap.

The rain creaked overhead. Against the windows. The soft pattering a gentle lullaby, one that in any other instance he would have listened to, fallen asleep to. But it wasn't violin.

He let out a deep breath, his eyebrows knitting, his hands no longer trembling.

Before the nerve could desert him, he quickly opened the computer. The screen flickered to life. He pulled up the internet. The silence hung in the air around him, broken by the disjointed sound of rain overhead. There was nothing, save him and the start up page of the internet.

He sucked in air that was quickly vanishing from the room.

And went to the blog page.

It was just as he had left it, three years ago.

Untouched. Unchanged.

His hands trembled slightly. Once. And he typed the title.

**Memories of Sherlock**

Delete.

**Memories of my Best Friend**

Delete.

**In Memory of Sherlock Holmes**

Delete.

**Sherlock was Never a Fake**

He shook his head sharply at that. He could almost hear the familiar voice mocking him.

Delete.

**I Believe in Sherlock Holmes**

Dele-

No.

Yes. YES!

Another heavy sigh heaved forth. And he began typing the entry itself.

It was like unleashing a tidal wave of tumultuous emotion, his fingers flew over the entry, ignoring the cases, ignoring the others, ignoring the machine, ignoring that calculation, typing, talking, only about the man. The greatest man. The most human human being.

He didn't feel the rain that leaked down his cheeks.

_He threw these tantrums over the littlest things, but one could hardly call them tantrums to his face or he'd whirl around and get right in your face with those eyes, and he'd see right through you, just right through you, read your every secret, and say it right back to you with this smug, mocking look in his eyes. His face would be so blank, you couldn't tell he was making fun of you though. It was quite funny, really, especially when people got all flustered and embarrassed about it._

He chuckled at a few stray memories that swept to the forefront of his mind, before shoving them back down.

_He had the best sense of humour of any man I've ever known, too. That sounds strange, I supposed, one wouldn't really think that the great, brilliant, Sherlock Holmes would have a bloody sense of humour. He did, though. I made a comment about how bad a cabbie the serial killer from our first case was. He nodded, looking all stoic, then remarked "you should've seen the route he took us to get here". It was bloody awful, the two of us giggling at a crime scene._

The rain kept trickling down Watson's cheeks. A gasping breath he didn't realize was his. The back of his arm scrubbed furiously at the rain that wouldn't stop.

Silence. The rain breathed over his shoulder.

Wait.

"John, I'm pleased you think so highly of me, but really now, we have a triple homicide we must be getting on to see. Come on then, grab your coat, we're going."

"One moment, Sherlock! Let me post this on my blog."

"Just hurry it up, and hope this next case isn't dull! I've been bored enough as is."

John rolled his eyes and hit post, rising quickly, the leg barely a bother as he half limped, half ran to grab his jacket and –

His brain caught up with his body.

_Wait a moment. Wait a moment. Sherlock. Sherlock was just telling me to get my coat, saying that we have to go –_

"John! We don't have time to dally, the cab's waiting, hurry up!"

_Sherlock. Sherlock's here. He's here. He's here. He's here he's here he's here._ His voice stopped working, mouth opening, closing, opening, closing, forming the name.

"Jesus Christ, John, how long could it possibly take you –" At once a familiar figure was in the doorway, eyes flashing with impatience.

"Sherlock."

"Yes, John, what is it?" That restlessness. Christ, he'd missed him.

"You're...not dead." The words spilled out from somewhere he didn't know. His mind wasn't working. There was just..._Sherlock._

"Of course I'm not, I told you that. I told you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade." Anger roared to life in his belly.

"_WHAT?!_ You did not! You didn't say a word! I haven't heard a single word for three years, Sherlock, and you just show up in here, bustling around, expecting things to go right back to nor-" He paused, catching the slightly bewildered expression in the narrowed eyes. Sherlock straightened, his eyes widening in realization.

"Oh. _Oh._ You didn't get it, did you?" He let out a heavy sigh. "I really must ask what goes on in that small brain of yours, how did you not catch my message? I. Was. A. Fake. A fake, John, a fake body. What did you think I meant? That I would just give in? Let Moriarty win? Come _on, _John, _think!_ Under no circumstance would I commit suicide, let alone in front of the one person I consider a friend." His hands were clenched in the unruly, dark hair, he was pacing back and forth with those long legs. And then he turned, walking forth so fast, his hands grabbing at Watson's shoulders, his eyes burning, boring, searching. Deducing. Pulling forth all his fears, all his worries, every searing question. And then the eyes widened again in understanding.

"Why, John? Do you want to know why?" He was so close now. Those eyes, that rumbling voice. All so frighteningly close. The lips pulled back in something halfway between a smile and a snarl.

"For you. For Mrs. Hudson. For Lestrade. He threatened you. Moriarty had snipers on all _three of you._ And the only way you could live was if I died. He shot himself John. He shot himself right in front of me, so I had no choice, John, don't you see?" His chest was heaving. Come to think of it, they were both breathing heavily. Rain started dripping down his face.

John looked down, fists clenching and unclenching.

"Right then." He pulled himself from Sherlock's grip, grabbing his coat and marching down the stairs, cane forgotten on the ground.

"John? Wait, John-" He heard Sherlock's footsteps behind him, running after him, thudding down the stairs. He didn't stop. He shoved through the door, into the rain, into the still pouring rain.

"John!" Sherlock grabbed his arm, spinning him around to face him. Rain was drenching them both now, streaming down from the rolling heavens above. Sherlock's dark, unruly locks quickly plastered themselves to his pale face. Bright eyes were darting across his face, looking for any hint of expression. It took all of John's being to hold down the flailing anger that seethed in his belly. But Sherlock saw it. He always did.

"John...I...I'm..." He hesitated. "I wish I didn't have to resort to it. It's been harder to think, talking to skulls."

John cracked a faint smile, the rain pounding against his face. And suddenly he was hit in the face by a thick, familiar coat, long arms wrapping around his, a nose burying in his hair.

"John, I..."

He hesitated, slowly returning the wet, desperate embrace, letting out his anger in a sigh.

"I'm mad at you, Sherlock. You can't just bloody disappear like that, you sod. You're an idiot. A complete idiot, you know that?" He snorted softly, a smile tugging at his lips. "I forgive you. And I missed you, too." His arms tightened. "I missed you so much, Sherlock."

Silence. The nose dug deeper into his hair as John felt the shaky sigh heave its way from the lean, familiar body.

"Yes, well. You don't have to miss me anymore. Now come on, then. This mystery isn't going to solve itself." His voice rumbled out from his body. He hesitated, pulling back enough to look down at John. "It will be dangerous, though. I can't promise that I won't leave for good." The quiet implication hung in the air. He hesitated more. When he spoke next, his voice was strangely choked. "And I can't promise I'll be able to protect you from everything either... Would you still like to come along?" John's lips quirked into a real smile. A genuine smile for the first time in three years.

"Oh, God, yes."

* * *

_Thank you for reading!_


End file.
